Redzone (7 page)

“I don't see why not,” Mendez replied. “Especially if you could make a copy for me. We're supposed to keep the tapes for ninety days.”

“Done,” Lee said. “Thank you very much . . . Please don't mention my visit to Mrs. Kelly or anyone on your staff.”

Mendez frowned. “Is Margaret in danger?”

“No,” Lee answered. “She isn't. But if Dr. Duncan is who we think he is—we may need your help in order to catch him. I'll let you know.”

Lee's heart was beating just a little bit faster as she left. Was the doctor Margaret Kelly's grandson Arnold? Who, in spite of his history as a murderer, had a soft spot for his maternal grandmother . . . Or was Lee grasping at straws? She could contact every Dr. Duncan in LA and ask whether Mrs. Kelly was a patient. But most of them would insist on a CYA court order before they would divulge such information. Fortunately, there was another way to get the confirmation she needed.

From the assisted-living facility, Lee went straight to LAPD headquarters and Conference Room 7-J. The evidence boxes were still there, and Lee could hardly wait to dive into them. After fifteen minutes of searching, Lee had six samples of Arnold Kaplan's crabbed handwriting.

With those sheets of paper in hand, she went over to the table where she compared those to Dr. Duncan's signature. It looked as though there were a lot of similarities so she put in a call to the Criminalistics Laboratory. The person who answered referred her to a forensic document examiner named Alvin Soltis. He listened to her description of the situation, and said, “Come on up . . . I'll take a look.”

So Lee went up to the eighth floor, entered the lab, and went looking for Soltis. He had carefully mussed hair, was wearing a pristine lab coat, and was clearly heterosexual.
“My, my,” he said, as they shook hands. “My television set doesn't do you justice.”

“Thanks,” Lee said, as she pulled her hand free. “But I'm here to get your opinion on a handwriting sample, not my appearance.”

Most men would have been put off, but not Soltis. He produced a boyish grin. “Did I come on too soon? No problem . . . I'll try again later. Let's see what you have.”

The next twenty minutes were spent comparing the signature from the guest registry to the other writing samples. And once the process was over, Soltis delivered his judgment. “I wish we had more than the one signature to work with . . . But based on the sample we have, I'd say there's a high degree of probability that the Duncan signature was made by Arnold Kaplan.”

“That's it? Just ‘a high degree of probability'?”

“Yup.”

“Okay, put that in writing and e-mail it to me.”

“I could deliver it at dinner.”

Lee smiled sweetly. “Thanks for the offer . . . But I have fourteen cats—and they have to be fed at six.”

*   *   *

With the match to rely on, Lee returned to the assisted-living facility, and after a second conversation with the manager, was allowed to take the guest register. Subsequent analysis proved that Dr. Duncan's visits occurred twice a month, generally around the first and the fifteenth.

It was the twelfth, so Lee put in a request for surveillance during the day, when visitors were allowed to enter the facility. It was approved.

The long, seemingly interminable days crawled by. Hundreds of people came and went. A fire alarm went off on day one. It rained for a couple hours on day two. And an old lady backed into the van on the morning of day three. Then, having no idea that people knew what she'd done, the woman took off.

Finally, at about 10:00
A.M.
on day four, came the moment they'd been waiting for. Lee was sitting in back near the com tech, listening to some R&B, when her phone rang. She had to remove the earbuds to take the call. “Cassandra Lee.”

“This is Wilma,” the receptionist said conspiratorially. “Dr. Duncan is here . . . He went up to visit Mrs. Kelly.”

Lee felt her heart try to beat its way out of her chest. “Excellent . . . Well done. What's he wearing?”

“A sports coat, open-collared shirt, and khaki pants.”

“Okay, we'll take it from here,” Lee said. Then she brought a handheld radio up to her lips. “This is 1-William-3. The suspect is inside the building. He's wearing a sports coat, open-collared shirt, and khaki pants.

“We'll pick him up as he comes out and tail him. The shadow team will follow and take over after a mile or two. Do you read me? Over.”

“This is 1-Union-6,” a male voice responded. “I read you.”

1-Union-6 was Wolfe's second-in-command. Where was Wolfe anyway? Not that it mattered.

Prospo drove the van through the parking lot to a position adjacent to the single exit. That would allow Lee to track Dr. Duncan to his car and put out a description. Then Prospo was supposed to tail the vehicle prior to the switch. Maybe Duncan would go home, and maybe he wouldn't. But the plan was to follow him until he did. Because if he was Kaplan, and Kaplan was the Bonebreaker, that was where Lee was likely to find evidence linked to eight murders.

She turned to the tech. He was wearing headphones and seated in front of a control panel. “What are they talking about?”

It had been easy to plant listening devices in Mrs. Kelly's apartment though largely a waste of time. “She's complaining about her back pain,” the tech replied. “The suspect wants her to get more exercise.”

The next twenty minutes were agonizingly slow. But finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the tech said the
words that Lee had been waiting to hear. “They said good-bye to each other. She called him ‘Arnold.'”

Lee felt her heart leap. The entire team had been 99 percent sure that Duncan and Kaplan were the same man, but now it was a certainty! “Okay,” Lee said over the radio. “Stand by. The visit is over. He'll be out in a minute or two.”

Lee trained a pair of binoculars on the entrance to the building. A man pushed an empty wheelchair out. A woman carrying a cardboard box went inside. Then the suspect appeared. Sports coat, check. Shirt, check. Pants, check.

Lee watched Kaplan pause to look around. The murderer had more hair now. A wig? Implants? Anything was possible. And he was wary, the way a wild animal is wary, always on the lookout for danger. But the white van didn't
look
dangerous. So Kaplan's eyes slid across the vehicle without so much as a pause.

Then, satisfied that it was safe to do so, Kaplan cut across the parking lot to an end slot, where a gray
especiale
was parked. “He's getting into his car,” Lee reported. “It's a metallic gray two-seater with California plate Six-Mary-Boy-Victor-Three-Three. Now he's pulling out. We're on him. Stay back until I call you forward.”

Kaplan pulled out of the lot, and Prospo followed. The key was to stay one or two cars back but to keep the
especiale
in sight. At one point, Prospo had to run a red light in order to keep up but managed to get away with it.

Lee scrambled to get into the front passenger seat as Prospo swore. “Shit! There's some sort of roadblock up ahead!”

Lee looked, saw that two squad cars were parked nose to nose, with a small gap between them. Their light bars were lit, and cops with shotguns were standing to the left and right. Lee was about to get on the radio when Ayeman's voice was heard. “This is the SLO (Senior Lead Officer). We have the suspect in the box. Close it.”

But it quickly became clear that Kaplan wasn't about to cooperate with Ayeman's plan. He hit the gas, aimed the
sports car at the gap, and slammed into the sedans. Both vehicles gave, which allowed the
especiale
to pass between them. Some of the police officers opened fire. “Stay on the bastard,” Lee ordered, as the van's grill lights and siren came on. “Don't let him get away!”

Her mind was spinning. Why had Ayeman taken control? Where was Kaplan going?

“Break it off!” Ayeman shouted over the radio. “Break it off
now
!”

He's scared,
Lee thought to herself.
Scared that civilians will get hurt. Never mind the fact that a cop killer is getting away.
“We didn't hear that,” Lee said flatly. “Get him.”

“Hear
what
?” Prospo said, as he put his foot to the floor. The van barely fit through the gap between the two police cars and a police officer fired at it reflexively. Shotgun pellets pinged the van. Ayeman was yelling contradictory orders over the radio as Kaplan made a series of random turns. Or were they random? His general direction was north.

Suddenly, a helicopter appeared up ahead. A police chopper . . . or a helicopter owned by one of the TV stations. That's what Lee assumed until the aircraft turned to expose an open door. The machine gun was clear to see. “Holy shit!” Prospo exclaimed, as the gunner opened fire, and bullets threw up columns of asphalt from the street.

Rather than tilt up, the guy on the gun let the van run into the stream of fire. Lee heard a series of overlapping impacts as bullets hit the hood, smashed the windshield, and passed between them. Both Lee and Prospo were unhurt, but as Lee looked back she saw the tech was slumped sideways in his seat. Her first thought was to go back and help but there was no reason to do so. Half his head was missing.

Then the van was in the clear, but steam was pouring out of the engine compartment as Prospo took evasive action. “This is 1-William-3,” Lee shouted into the radio. “We are taking fire from a hostile aircraft . . . Officer down . . . Need assistance.”

“No, no, no!” Ayeman shouted. “Stop it!”

But it was too late for that. “He's going somewhere,” Prospo said, as he swerved to miss an oncoming car. “A place where the chopper can pick him up.”

Lee swore. She should have thought of that . . . Even worse was the fact that she had assumed Kaplan was the Bonebreaker and a loner. The possibility that he could summon a helicopter had never occurred to her. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Focus,
Lee told herself.
Where is the bastard going?
She fumbled with the laptop. There . . . The GPS-enabled map was on the screen. She could see the arrow that was the van, and looking ahead, a sports park! The perfect spot to land a chopper. “He's headed for Chavez Park!” she exclaimed.

The words were nearly drowned out as the helicopter passed low over their heads. Then it swept over Kaplan and continued north. Proof that the theory was correct. “Don't let him reach that helo,” Lee said grimly. Prospo didn't answer. His eyes were glued on the street ahead. The steam pouring out of the engine compartment had turned to smoke. That made it difficult to see. A car backed out of a driveway. That forced Prospo to turn, bump up and over the curb, and circle through a yard. Lee heard a screech as the tires hit the road again.

Then she saw the cyclone fence, light standards in the distance, and wooden stands off to the right. An entrance was located directly ahead of the van, but a row of four-foot-high metal pipes blocked the way forward. Kaplan brought his car to a halt, jumped out, and began to run.

Prospo braked, lost control, and slid sideways. There was a loud crash as the left side of the van hit the rear end of the
especiale
. Flames erupted from the engine compartment.

Lee opened the passenger-side door and hit the ground. She was a better-than-average runner—and so high on adrenaline that it felt as if she could fly. Her legs pumped, the Glock was in her hand, and she saw the distance begin to close. Meanwhile, the chopper was settling into to a miniature dust storm of its own making on the baseball diamond.

Kaplan skidded to a stop, turned, and fired a pistol. The shots went wide. He whirled and took off again. Valuable ground had been lost. Lee was closer by then, but not close enough, as the machine gunner opened fire. The bullets drew a line in front of her as Kaplan dashed in under the rotors. Lee couldn't catch up. That was obvious now. So she knelt, took aim, and fired. Not once, but seventeen times, until the weapon clicked empty.

Kaplan was up on a step by that time, reaching for the gunner's outstretched hand, when at least one of the .9mm slugs struck him in the back. The body pitched forward, slid sideways, and fell. Kaplan's corpse was consumed by a manmade dust storm as the helicopter took off, skimmed the neighborhood to the east, and continued to gain altitude.

There were sirens after that, and a dozen blue uniforms swept onto the field. Lee just stood there, body shaking, her pistol pointed at the ground.

It had taken Detective Prospo a long time to cover the necessary distance, and he was out of breath when he arrived. A moment passed while he stood with hands on knees. Then he straightened up. The body lay near the pitcher's mound. “Nice job,” Prospo said as he put an arm around Lee's shoulders. “Let's go home.”

LEE HAD BEEN
in the conference room before. It was a soulless environment that was home to a dying plant, some institutional art, and a much-abused conference table. What was the record for shooting reviews anyway? Three? Four? Five? It didn't matter. Lee felt certain that she would win. Or lose. Depending on how one chose to look at it.

Two weeks had passed since Kaplan's death. And as the shooting review board convened for a third day, Lee's badge was on the line yet again. Because, unlike her previous reviews, the outcome of this one was anything but certain.

The morning had been spent on a list of alleged failures which, according to Assistant Chief Purdy Ayeman, Lee was guilty of. That included disobeying an order from him, public endangerment, and telling a superior officer to “fuck off.” The officer in question was Ayeman himself.

Now it was Lee's turn. Which was to say, Marvin Codicil's turn, and the attorney was ready. “So,” Codicil said, as he took to the floor. “Let's review the facts. Detective Lee was in control of the stakeout. A plan had been agreed upon.
And, in accordance with that plan, Lee and Detective Prospo were to follow the suspect as he left the assisted-living facility.

“Then as soon as it seemed prudent to do so they were to switch off with another car to escape notice. The goal being to follow the suspect to his home where there was reason to believe that the team could obtain evidence related to
eight
unsolved murders. We know this plan was shared with, and approved by, Lieutenant Wolfe because we have a signed document to that effect.”

Codicil's back was to Lee and the rest of the observers as he eyed the members on the review board, all of whom were seated behind the long, narrow table. “So far so good,” Codicil concluded.

“But then, unbeknownst to Detectives Lee and Prospo, Assistant Chief Ayeman assumed command of the operation. This, as we learned during his testimony, was due to the fact that Lieutenant Wolfe was ill. And had Chief Ayeman been content to allow Wolfe's second-in-command to take over for her, the odds are good that we wouldn't be here today.”

That produced a loud objection from Ayeman's attorney—as well as a rebuke from the deputy chief who was in charge of the panel. “This is not a courtroom, Miss Tangent. Objections have no place here.” Then, with a nod to Codicil, “You may continue.”

Codicil nodded. “Thank you. The reason I said what I did is that Chief Ayeman made what he admits was a unilateral decision to depart from the agreed-upon plan and to do so without providing Lee's team with any warning. Rather than try to follow Mr. Kaplan to his residence, Ayeman decided to establish an ad hoc roadblock in an attempt to capture the suspect after he left the assisted-living facility. His justification was that, as he put it, ‘I was afraid that the public team would lose the suspect in traffic.'

“That,” Codicil said, “sounds like a reasonable concern.
But one that would normally be addressed during the planning stage of such an operation. A process that Ayeman was invited to take part in but chose not to. And we know what happened next. The suspect blew through the impromptu roadblock, thereby triggering the very chase that Detectives Lee and Prospo have been criticized for taking part in.”

Codicil paused at that point to let his words sink in. “Then,” Codicil said ominously, “the suspect headed north. Chief Ayeman claims to have given orders at that point . . . And there are tapes to substantiate his testimony. On those tapes he can be heard ordering Detectives Lee and Prospo to break off the chase. But here's the problem . . . For some reason the two detectives didn't
hear
that order. Perhaps a technical glitch was to blame. Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that they were taking fire from a helicopter.

“Of course there was a
third
person in the van. A com tech named Dewey Lambert. Ideally,
he
would be able to shed some light on this matter. But, unfortunately, Lambert was killed as a direct result of Chief Ayeman's incompetence and dreams of personal glory.”

That triggered an objection from Ayeman himself. “That's a lie!” he shouted.

“Is it?”
Codicil asked rhetorically. “Then explain why you called an editor at the
Los Angeles Times
immediately after the suspect left the assisted-living facility and invited her to dispatch a reporter to that location?”

That was a new revelation, and it produced a storm of consternation, commentary, and expressions of outrage. Codicil smiled beatifically, said “Thank you,” and returned to his seat. Lee and Prospo were cleared forty-six minutes later.

*   *   *

The shooting review had taken place on Friday. And Lee had the weekend off. After changing the linen on her bed and cleaning the apartment, she went out for a three-mile run.
When Lee returned she made her way back to the stairs. And there, chained to the wrought-iron railing, was a three-wheeled bicycle. It was a strange-looking affair that boasted an old-fashioned squeeze horn, a flashlight in place of a headlight, and a small radio mounted on the handlebars. The rear cargo area was full to overflowing with bottles of water, camping gear, and a folding lawn chair. Lee had never seen the rig before but assumed that it belonged to a visitor.

She climbed the stairs and, as she made her way along the walkway, saw that a man was seated with his back against her front door. His head was down, and it looked as if he was reading. Then, as he heard her footsteps, the man scrambled to his feet. The electronic reader disappeared into a side pocket, and his hands dangled loosely at his sides.

The man was well over six feet tall and skinny as a rail. His hair was long and stringy, his eyes looked huge because of the goggle-style glasses he wore, and his clothes were filthy. Worse yet was the fact that she could smell him from six feet away. The Bonebreaker? No, she didn't think so. But her right hand was on her hip just inches away from the Smith & Wesson holstered at her back. “Yes?”

“W-Wally,” the man said. “M-my name's W-Wally. Are y-you C-Cassandra Lee?”

Lee frowned. “Yes.”

“G-good. I h-have something f-for you. A l-letter.”

“You don't look like a mailman.”

“I'm a c-courier,” Wally replied. “I w-work for R-red Zone L-logistics.”

Lee had heard of the company. Most people had. Since it was impossible to send a letter or package into the red zone, or to receive something
from
the red zone, a variety of companies had stepped in to fill the need. The most prominent of which was RZL. Their couriers were freelancers. Men and women who were paid to pick up letters and small packages from one of the company's distribution stations and deliver them to their final destinations.

But only within their respective countries because mutants weren't allowed to enter the green zone, and the norms didn't want to visit the red zone. “I see,” Lee said. “So you have a letter for me.”

“Y-yes,” Wally replied.

“How much?”

“F-fifty nu.”

“That's a lot of money for a letter.”

Wally wiped his nose with a crusty sleeve. He, like all of his kind, was familiar with cheapskates. People who didn't care about the hundreds of miles he pedaled under a hot sun, the bribes that had to be paid in order to obtain addresses, and the nights spent hunkered down next to contaminated creeks. His response took all of that into account. “O-okay . . . N-no problem. I-I'll w-wipe my ass with it.”

Lee couldn't help but laugh. “Okay, Wally . . . You win. Fifty nu it is. What were you reading?”

“
T-the P-postman
, by D-David Brin.”

“Never heard of it,” Lee replied. “But that's what you are. A postman. Wait by your bike. I'll get the money and be right down.”

Lee watched Wally disappear down the stairs before unlocking her door and going inside. She had only one friend who lived inside the red zone, and that was Ras Omo, a deputy with the Maricopa County Sheriff's Department. They had worked together on the Screed case. So, assuming the letter was from him, she was eager to read it.

Lee opened her purse, found her wallet, and removed sixty nu. Then she left the apartment and made her way down to the bottom of the stairs where Wally was waiting. “Here you go,” Lee said, as she gave him the money.

Wally counted the bills and looked up at her. “Th-thanks for the tip.”

“You're welcome.”

Wally withdrew the letter from the inside pocket of his ragged jacket and gave the packet over. Lee saw that her
name had been written on the outside of the RZL all-weather envelope. But there was no return address.

Wally was busy freeing his bike from the railing by then. “Hold on,” Lee told him. “Before you leave, I'd like to make sure that there's a letter inside and that it's intended for me.”

Wally waited while Lee tore the package open. A
second
envelope was waiting within. The return address read: “Alala Lee, C/O Myra Meo, 1432 Mountain View Lane, Heartbreak, Nevada.”

The name came as a tremendous shock.
Alala Lee . . .
Her
mother's
name! And written with the same loopy handwriting she'd seen on the various documents Alala had left behind. The most notable being a notebook filled with poetry. It had been what? Thirty-four years earlier? When she was
two
? Yes, that was when Mrs. Frank Lee had packed a bag and left for parts unknown.

Lee could feel the tears starting to build up as she turned to Wally. Then she said, “Thank you,” and ran up the stairs. Once inside the apartment, she locked the door—and stood with her back pressed against it. Her mother was alive! Lee wasn't sure if that was good or bad. She'd been angry at her for a long time. Then the dam broke, and deep sobs racked her body . . . Lee stumbled into the living room, where she collapsed on the couch, the letter still clutched in her hands.

It wasn't until five minutes later that she stood on wobbly legs and went into the kitchen to get a knife. It cut through the envelope to reveal a single piece of paper and a photo. Even though she hadn't seen her for decades, and even though the woman in the picture was a good deal older now, Lee recognized her mother right away. And more than that, herself . . . Because in spite of the age difference there was a remarkable resemblance between them. Then realization hit . . . Every day Frank Lee looked at his daughter he'd been reminded of the woman who'd left him! Had that colored their relationship? Of course it had.

According to the date, the letter had been written four
weeks earlier. “Dear Cassie,” it began.
Cassie?
Nobody called her Cassie. Nor did she want them to.

Dear Cassie,

I read about you honey . . . It was in the paper. According to the article, you're a detective now. And you're in the red zone looking for a girl who was kidnapped. I'm proud of you Cassie,
real
proud, but not so proud of myself.

I shouldn't have left you honey, that was the wrong thing to do, and not a day goes by that I don't regret it. But I was young . . .
Too
young. And your father? I told him how I felt, but he didn't understand. So I felt trapped—and when the two of you were away, I ran. That was wrong, Cassie . . . But what is, is. There's no way I can go back and fix it now.

I called myself Freedom for a while—and drifted from place to place. Eventually, I wound up here, in Heartbreak, Nevada. It's a mining town and not an easy place to live if you're a norm. But you've been in the red zone, and you know what I'm talking about.

Anyway, here's the thing . . . I've been sick for some time now, and the doctors tell me that I'm going to die. That's okay 'cause all of us are going to die—but I'd like to see you one last time before I go. I'd like to look into your big brown eyes and tell you that I love you.

Of course you might not receive this, or if you do, you might be too busy to come. Or, and I wouldn't blame you, there's the distinct possibility that you won't
want
to come. Should that be the case don't worry about it. Believe me, I understand.

With all my love,

Your mother

Lee spent the rest of the day, and much of the evening, reading and rereading her mother's letter. There was so much to consider. Alala had apologized, and that was good. But how much was such an apology worth? More than three decades had passed since Alala had walked out on her husband and daughter. And now, as her mother's life was about to end, she wanted
what
? Comfort? A reconciliation? Forgiveness?

There was a part of Lee that was willing to grant some or all of those things assuming that it lay within her power to do so. But another part, the
cop
part, was hard and unyielding.
Alala made her choice,
the cop identity said.
Now she has to live the consequences of her decision. That's how it should be.
But another, softer her disagreed. What was the famous quote? “To err is human; to forgive, divine.” And it wasn't as if Lee hadn't made mistakes herself. There was a lot to think about.

*   *   *

The Bonebreaker awoke with a start. Another bad dream. He was lying on his bed in what had once been a storage room, surrounded by concrete walls, and protected by a steel door. But even the vault couldn't protect him from Cassandra Lee. Because she was him, and he was her. She hated the way
he
hated, she schemed the way
he
schemed, and she lived to kill just as he did. Both of them were good at that, each in their own way, and meant to battle each other. He for God and she for Satan.

And Lee was winning. She was using the police department to put pressure on him, to strike fear into his heart, and to force him out into the open. His response was to build and launch the drone. He's seen her through the camera, approaching the sedan, and sent the explosive-laden plane straight at her. Anyone else would be dead. But in the fraction of a second that preceded impact, the Bonebreaker had seen her look up! As if she knew . . . As if Satan had told her.